


Fishing

by willwork4dean



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:46:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willwork4dean/pseuds/willwork4dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Callen gets a hobby</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fishing - Part One

_“When all this is over, I’m getting a hobby.” G Callen, “Touch of Death”_

***

“Fly fishing,” G announced.

It was late afternoon, and they were heading back to the office, but at a leisurely pace. LA had been quiet since the smallpox thing several weeks earlier. ( _Too quiet_ , Sam thought.)

Sam realized G was looking at him expectantly. “Fly fishing,” he said carefully.

“Yeah.”

“What about it?”

“I said I was going to get a hobby, right? So, fly fishing.” G gave an emphatic nod.

Sam merged into the next lane, even though he knew it was hopeless. LA traffic was like standing in line at the grocery store — no matter which checkout lane you picked, it always turned out to be the slowest one. No lie, one time Sam had gotten in line behind an elderly gentleman buying nothing but a cantaloupe, and the transaction — a complicated one involving an expired coupon, the store manager, and exact change — had taken twenty solid minutes. Twenty minutes of Sam Hanna’s life he would never get back.

Sam realized G was watching him again, and cleared his throat. “G, do you even know what fly fishing is?”

“Of course I do.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I do,” G insisted. “Fish eat flies, right? So you catch flies and then use them to catch fish.”

“Sounds relaxing,” Sam said.

***

“So it turns out,” G said a week later, “that the flies aren’t real.”

Sam executed a close turn, keeping his eyes on the suspect’s SUV but taking care to stay two car lengths behind. He knew the driver hadn’t spotted them, but Sam Hanna took pride in his work. “What flies?”

“For fly fishing. It turns out you don’t use real flies. You make fake ones. I guess you knew that,” G added.

“I’d heard,” Sam admitted. Actually, the suspect wasn’t so much an actual suspect as a person who might have information regarding someone who might potentially be an actual suspect. Field work wasn’t always exciting, Sam reminded himself sternly. It didn't mean he got to relax his vigilance.

“It turns out,” G continued, “that you make these fake flies out of string and stuff.” 

“Uh-huh.”

G shook his head. “You should see these poor bastards, Sam. They’ve got tons of equipment and all sorts of little fiddly feathers and string and they sit around with magnifying glasses making fake flies. And then,” his voice rose a little in disbelief, “sometimes you don’t even catch the fish. Sometimes the fish eats your fake fly and gets away and then where are you?” He shook his head again. “They even made a movie about it, if you can believe that.”

“'A River Runs Through It,'” Sam said.

“No, a movie.”

Sam finally took his eyes off the road. “No, the movie was called 'A River Runs Through It.'”

G gave a restless shrug. “I don’t know what it was called.”

“Did it have Brad Pitt in it?”

“I don’t know the guy’s name,” G said irritably. “Just that they spent the whole movie fly fishing. And in the end it wasn’t even about the fish. It was about family or something.” He shifted restlessly again. “I think this guy made us.”

“Hell, no,” Sam said. “Nobody makes my tails.” But he sped up a little, just in case.

“Then there’s all this other stuff,” G said two blocks later. “Equipment. Special fishing poles and hats and waders and shit. Why not just dig up some worms and drop a line in the water?”

“Okay, Huck Finn,” Sam said easily. “Why don’t you try that?”

“Dunno.” G shrugged. “Maybe fishing’s not the hobby for me.” He sat up straighter, his eyes alert. “He’s pulling over.”

“I’m on it.” Sam eased the car to the curb. They were a full half-block behind the suspect, but when he got out of his car, he took one look at them and ran, so they had to chase him down.

For two heart-stopping minutes, Sam lost both G and the suspect in an alley. He radioed for back-up and was just about to panic when G appeared, marching the cuffed suspect in front of him. They were both filthy — G had tackled the guy into a pile of full garbage bags behind a Korean restaurant. He stank of cabbage for the rest of the day.

Now he just grinned cheerfully at Sam. “Told you he made us.”

***

“Woodworking.” G leaned back in his desk chair.

Sam just glared at him over his stack of paperwork.

“Seriously,” G said. “Woodworking. I could make stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Boats,” G said airily, swiveling back and forth in his chair. “Gibbs makes boats.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam went back to his paperwork.

“I did good in wood shop in high school, no matter which school I was at. Metal shop, too. How about you?”

“We didn’t have metal shop in my high school,” Sam said tersely.

“I did good in metal shop,” Deeks piped up.

“Nobody asked you,” Sam growled.

“I fixed your toaster,” G pointed out. “I could fix stuff. Mechanical stuff.”

“You didn’t fix my toaster because my toaster wasn’t broken. You just took it apart for no reason.”

“Seriously. I made a lamp once, out of a Seven-Up can and a lightbulb. It worked and everything.”

“It was too broken,” G said. “It didn’t toast evenly on both sides. Now it does.”

“I gave it to my mom for Mother’s Day. She still has it on her bedside table.”

“Shut up, Deeks. Maybe you could collect something,” Kensi suggested.

G swiveled around and looked at her. “Like what?”

“I dunno.” Kensi shrugged. “Stamps or something. Teapots. Little porcelain figurines.”

“Not everybody wants to be a hoarder, Fern,” Deeks pointed out.

“I’m not a hoarder,” she pouted.

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“You gotta admit, Sam,” G said. “Your whole-grain English Muffins come out evenly toasted on both sides now.”

“SHUT UP!” Sam bellowed, standing up so quickly his chair fell over with a crash. “All of you just SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“You,” he pointed at G, “don’t need a hobby. What you need is to stop charging off into dangerous situations with inadequate backup.”

“You,” he pointed at Kensi, “need to realize that all the possessions in the world won’t keep you safe from heartache.” 

“And _you_ ,” he stabbed his finger at Deeks, “need to SHUT YOUR FREAKING MOUTH FOR FIVE FREAKING MINUTES SO I CAN FREAKING THINK!”

In the dead silence that followed, all three stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Then Sam heard a discreet cough behind him.

“Mister Hanna,” Hetty said. “A word, if you please.”

_To be continued..._


	2. Fishing - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Callen gets a hobby - continued

“Fly fishing,” Sam said insistently as Hetty stirred the tea. “Woodworking. Stamp collecting. _Golf_. He’s like a crazy person.”

“Mmm,” Hetty said serenely. She poured two cups, pausing to take an appreciative sniff of the aroma.

“You know who has hobbies?” Sam went on. “Normal people. People with jobs and houses and vacations. People with life insurance and pensions. People who _own_ things. Not people who still sleep on the damn floor.”

“Indeed. One lump or two?”

“None for me, thanks.”

Hetty froze and looked up at Sam through her glasses.

He winced. “I mean, I’ll take the tea, but no sugar. Please.”

“An excellent choice,” Hetty purred as she slid the delicate cup of amber liquid across her desk. “I find sugar over-balances Lapsang Souchang’s subtle smoky flavor. Now,” she added as she settled back in her chair. “Tell me how you and Agent Callen happened upon this _fascinating_ topic of conversation.”

“It was during the whole smallpox thing. G started babbling about getting a hobby and he hasn’t shut up since.”

“Hmmm.” Hetty sipped her tea. “Is that all?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you quite sure?”

Sam frowned. “G said we should retire to Hawaii, or at least get a hobby, and I said—“ He broke off, remembering

“Yes?” Hetty prompted.

Sam felt a flush of shame. “I said the only way guys like him retired was with a bullet.”

Hetty set her teacup back in the saucer. “Ah.”

“I was only repeating the same thing G’s said a million times,” Sam protested. “Every time I’ve ever brought up retirement, he’d say guys like him don’t get to retire. That he wanted to go out with a bang.”

“I see. And then what happened?”

Sam rubbed his eyes. “He said I jinxed him. That he might get shot.”

“Did you, Mister Hanna?”

Sam stared at her. “Come on, Hetty. You and I both know there’s no such thing as jinxes.”

Hetty inclined her head. “Perhaps not. But in our business, there is luck. And superstition. And the power of suggestion. Any of which might interfere with an agent’s focus.”

Sam though back to that afternoon, to the cold, sick feeling he’d had when G had disappeared. An even deeper memory presented itself, of the hot sidewalk in Venice and the seemingly endless wait while G bled out. When the EMTs finally arrived, they didn’t have time be gentle. They hoisted G out of Sam’s arms and onto the gurney. G convulsed with pain and let out a horrible wheezing scream. Sam still heard it sometimes, in his dreams.

“—Mister Hanna?”

Sam stared at Hetty. “What?”

“I said,” she repeated gently. “We were all under a lot of stress during the smallpox outbreak. At such times, one thinks of what really matters.”

“So for the first time,” Sam said slowly, “G let himself think he might live long enough to retire. With me.”

“Exactly.”

“And I blew it.”

“I think you’re being far too hard on yourself, Agent Hanna.”

Sam shook his head. “You didn’t see his face. He gave me The Look.”

Hetty raised her eyebrows.

“You know The Look,” Sam groused. “It’s G’s ‘I’m a stray puppy and you just kicked me to the curb for the thirty-eighth time’ look.”

“Ah, yes.” Hetty smiled indulgently. “I am familiar with that expression.”

“With an extra helping of ‘I never thought you’d be the one to kick me, Sam Hanna.’” Sam gnawed his thumbnail.

“Perhaps. And when Callen said you jinxed him…”

Sam frowned at Hetty. “You don’t think he really believed that.”

“No, Mister Hanna. I think you did.”

Sam stared at Hetty, and she chuckled. “My dear Sam, you’ve been on pins and needles for weeks. It’s as if you think that, if you let your guard down for one second, disaster will strike. That’s a perfectly normal reaction,” she added. “But if it goes on long enough, it…”

Hetty paused, searching for the right words. “It eats away at one. It makes one needlessly paranoid and _that_ ,” she pointed her bony finger at Sam, “makes you less effective in the field. _And_ ,” she lifted her finger upward for emphasis, “it also makes you hell to work with. I can’t have you losing your temper with the entire team.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Sam rubbed his eyes again, then leaned back in his chair. “So what do I do? To get over it.”

Hetty’s eyes twinkled. “You might want to think about getting a hobby.”

“Very funny,” Sam muttered. “Seriously, what should I do about…?”

Hetty tipped her head to the side again. “About…?”

“Things with G. And the rest of the team.”

“Fix them, of course. But first,” Hetty pointed at Sam’s cup. “Drink your tea.”

***

An hour later, G was still at his desk, although most of the staff had gone home. He clearly heard Sam approaching, but didn’t look up from his paperwork.

Sam took a deep breath, then set the object in his hands on the desk.

G looked at it. Frowned, then looked closer. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s an ant farm.”

G stared at Sam. “A what farm?”

“An ant farm, “ Sam growled. When G continued to stare at him, he added, “Didn’t you ever have an ant farm—“

Sam broke off, cursing. He thought he’d long since broken himself of the habit of asking G about his childhood. 

He took another breath and tried again. “You said you needed a hobby. An ant farm is a hobby.”

G picked up the plastic container and looked at it from all angles. “How does it work?”

“Whaddya mean, how does it work? You put ants in it, G.”

“And then what?” 

“And then you watch them as they…” Sam waved his hands in the air. “Dig tunnels and shit. Have ant battles. Look, there’s one now.”

G stared in fascination as an ant tunneled busily through the sand. “Do you feed them?”

“Sure, you feed ‘em.”

G looked up at him, his blue eyes serious. “What do they eat?”

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugged. “Crumbs and stuff.”

“Crumbs, like from sandwiches?”

“I guess. And you put water in the little tube.” Sam tapped the clear plastic with his fingertip, and the ant scuttled away under the sand.

G carefully set the ant farm on his pile of paper, folded his arms on his desk, set his chin on them, and watched intently for a few minutes. “I like it,” he said finally.

Sam felt a tendril of tension uncoil in his chest. “Good.”

G looked at him worriedly. “But what if I screw up and they die?”

“They’re just ants, G,” Sam said gently. He hesitated. "Look...you know when I yell, it's just because I worry, right?"

"I know that," G said. "Just like I know you'll aways have my back."

"I will." Sam nodded. "“So are we cool?”

“Yeah, we’re cool.”

“Good.” Sam sat down at his desk and leaned back in his chair. G did the same, and they regarded each other for a long moment.

“So, not that I don’t appreciate this.” G waved his hand at the ant farm. “But I kinda realized I already have a hobby.”

“You do?” Sam felt the tension slip another notch as they slid into their usual banter. “And what’s that? Fighting terrorists?”

“No, that’s my job,” G said soberly. “A hobby is something you do on your free time. Not because it’s your job, but because you like it. You care about it.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s this hobby?”

“Well, it’s something fun,” G said. “There are no rules, and you don’t have to take classes at the community college to learn how to do it.”

“Go on,” Sam said. 

“You can do it all the time, and it never gets boring. It requires minimal equipment, but what equipment there is, is pretty spectacular.” G's eyes roamed appreciatively over Sam’s body.

Sam felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m intrigued,” he said. “Maybe you could show me how to do it sometime.”

“I’d like that.” G paused. “How does now sound?”

Sam grinned. “Now sounds good. But,” he held up his forefinger, “only on the condition that you take your own car and shower first. You still smell like kimchee.”

“It’s a deal.” G rose, picked up the ant farm, and walked slowly across the room, being careful not to shake the sand.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked.

G stared at him and lowered his voice. “Well, I don’t want the kids,” he nodded at the ant farm, “to see what we’re going to do. On the other hand, I can’t exactly leave them alone without a babysitter.” He walked around the corner toward the copy area.

Sam followed, long enough to hear Kensi’s delighted shriek and Deeks’ drawl:

“Man, I had an ant farm in the fourth grade. One day I accidentally knocked it on the floor and it broke. Well, it turned out they were fire ants, so you can imagine…”

Sam smiled and headed for his car. Maybe G getting a hobby wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

_The End_

***

 _Note: For those of you who never had an ant farm as a kid, here’s a picture:_  
http://www.areyougame.com/interact/item.asp?itemno=UM0033 &utm_source=GoogleBase&utm_medium=CA


End file.
